Ritual Comforts
by Sam-Tony
Summary: After the bad guys have been caught, Gideon makes soup. AU.


Ritual Comforts

I'm standing here in the living room of my boss' house and it's a little…well, it's a little surreal. I mean, in all the time I've known Jason Gideon I've rarely seen the inside of his office at Quantico; never have I been in his home.

But then, in all the time I've known him, it would seem I truly _haven't_ known him after all. And now that I'm beginning to…things have changed.

It's nice. Quaint almost. Definitely not what I expected, although I can't say why.

There are white curtains up at the wide windows; a fine, heavy linen that lets in the light and the warm April breeze without being either too heavy - or worse, insubstantial. The walls have been painted a deep calming blue, again neither too heavy nor too light. A couple pieces of weighty furniture – one couch in a cream fabric with darker blue pillows and a dark brown leather recliner that looks to have seen decades go by without crippling under the strain of what no doubt has been constant use - are balanced out by two delicately curved, antique armchairs, set at odds with the simple coffee table mirroring that same curvature. A thick, cream-fringed blue, brown and charcoal gray area rug covers most of the golden oak hardwood floor underneath. Blue and white dishes placed here and there, a simple sturdy lamp with cream linen shades for every table. What looks to be an incredibly soft afghan in blue, deeper blue, caramel, brown and black thrown over the back of the couch, ready for those chilly Virginia nights. Books, articles, worn manila brown case files and magazines are piled, if not neatly then at least in orderly stacks on the table by the recliner. The leftover spill is tucked into a makeshift basket caddy beside that selfsame recliner. Bookcases, quite a few of them actually, holding, not only books, but keepsakes as well as pictures and candid snapshots here and there. Both of the team as well as strangers I don't know and a few I'm beginning to.

It's very homey. It has a very solid and comforting presence.

And while I stand here cataloging and admiring what is no doubt a very cozy and revealing living room, Gideon is in the kitchen making stew. The aroma waifs in from down the short hall and I suddenly realize that I haven't eaten in what seems like days but is actually more like _a_ day. Ever since this case began. Samantha Vickers is home safe and sound with her parents now, her kidnapper and would-be rapist caught and arrested by the man in the kitchen. Making soup.

Speaking of home and feeling safe…

I actually think that the smell of homemade soup simmering on the stove is more of a indicator of home than the actual consummation of the soup itself. After all, our sense of smell is the most condusive to memory and what is home really, except the ultimate representation of comfort and safety? And there's a reason soup is considered a comfort food.

But who knew Jason Gideon cooked?

He's in there right now, humming away over a pot bubbling over with meat, potatoes, tomatoes, corn, spices and who only knows what else. What does one put in homemade vegetable soup, anyway? I can't see him but I picture him smiling, enjoying the comfortable silence that comes after a hard case closed peacefully, without bloodshed. I know that's how I feel, whenever we manage to catch the unsub before any innocents are harmed.

Any more innocents, anyway…

It's obvious that this is Gideon's comfort ritual; one he does after each successful case. Each successful battle. It tells him this time the good guys have won. That his own little corner of the world is once more aligned and at peace with itself. And that it didn't begin with just this case.

Last time it was homemade banana bread with pecans left in the office break room; not just for our team, but others involved in that search as well. The time before that, brownies taken to little Susan Daly's family, with some saved out for the rest of us.

I smile, catching a sound coming from the cheerful little kitchen. Jason is definitely humming.

It's sweet and makes me feel happy. The more I'm around him, the more I realize _he_ makes me feel happy. And safe. I'm not sure how I should feel about that – not only about the fact that Gideon is becoming Jason to me but that he feels like 'home'.

I know he wants to kiss me. To throw me onto the bed down the hall and do whatever it is vampires do to claim their perspective mates. But he won't. I know him – as much as any human can anyway – and I know for all of this fierce need bubbling inside of him, Gideon won't make a move until I'm ready. And I have to say that just blows me away. That this smart, gentle, strong man that not only wants me but needs me on such a visceral, bone-deep level is willing to sacrifice so much. I've talked to Hotch, not to mention Tony DiNozzo and his mate, Leroy Jethro Gibbs (apparently not our Clan, whatever that means, but…) – I know what it's costing him to wait me out.

On one level that amount of quiet, patient control is...a little scary. On the other, I can't deny how much it turns me on to know all of that very patience, that very control - that _desire_, - is mine. For me and no one else ever again.

He's…he's _courting_ me. Slowly circling until he knows I'm not going to run away screaming into the night from either his true nature or the thought of making love for the first time. Or both. Probably both. But amazingly enough it's not the vampire that scares me; the legends, the mythos of the nosferatu have been around, distorted pretty much in every way possible, probably since the beginning of human consciousness. The bogeyman that devours in the dark.

It's the fact that I _want_ to be devoured that shakes me. By Jason Gideon. My boss, my mentor, my friend. Who apparently is not human and hasn't been for five decades and more. Though I think I'd rather keep the lights on. That way I get to see Jason when he takes me; the first, last and only one to touch me, claim me in that way.

In any way.

I have a feeling _that_ is going to become _my_ comfort ritual. And I can't say I'm all that displeased with that.

end


End file.
